Last week I was procrastinating, going through a box of vintage postcards at Owl and Company, a used bookstore in Oakland. And in the pile of paper, this little beauty caught my eye. I couldn’t leave it there — and at fifty cents, why would I? I have an apartment to decorate.

I’ve always had the ability to become utterly obsessed with old postcards. It’s a weakness. One of many. Like when I come across a western shirt in my size. I buy. One thing I like about vintage postcards is that they are sent, not just across space, but through time. They traverse in four dimensions.

But why did this particular one catch my eye? Because I am who I am, I can’t just collect. I have to analyze why I love a thing:

There’s Picasso and Chicago: I’ve seen it in person — in fact, it’s one of the first things I saw in Chicago as I came up out of a train station. I’ve always had a deep attachment to Chicago since first visiting. So there’s that.

There’s the reproduction: The bold yellow border caught my eye. But there’s also the peculiar, painterly reproduction of the photo itself. There’s a lack of sharpness too. And deep shadows. It’s all rather harsh. That’s one of the great things about collecting old postcards: You’re seeing the history of photomechanical reproduction technology.

There’s the people: The sculpture is the highlight, but there are also six figures, dwarfed by the sculpture. But they are important. They provide scale and context. But also mystery. A child in white is blurred as she crosses in front of the sculpture. Two other people are obscured. Another child looks off camera. One man has his arm raised towards his face — I like to imagine he’s holding a camera. There’s a quality that suggests a Gerhard Richter painting. But who are these people? Where are they now? One minute they’re looking at a Picasso sculpture (or looking away from it), and then next they are photographed, reproduced, and sent to strangers around the world.

​There’s no grand revelation. After buying the postcard, I went out and bought a frame and a rust-colored backing for it. It hangs by my fireplace where it will continue to obsess me. It’s a moment trapped in amber.